


With a Heart of Gold

by dmajor7th



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: AU, Everyone's deepest insecurities - now under a microscope!, F/M, M/M, Sex Worker AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 18:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmajor7th/pseuds/dmajor7th
Summary: He only expected to be doing this for a bit, just long enough to cover the cost of his college applications. 7 years later it’s 10 days on, 3 days off, and he’s a few years away from owning a condo in one of America’s most expensive cities.Four evenings and four clients with Palo Alto’s busiest Professional Companion.





	1. “Aleister Crowley”

**Author's Note:**

> With ENORMOUS thanks to [Clutch Hedonist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist) for the beta reading, and to [crutialandinert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucialandinert/pseuds/crucialandinert) for the amazing Jared Talk that inspired this. Check out their writing, they are both fabulous!
> 
> The preambling prequel to this story can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189075).

_Well this isn’t_ the _most unusual request I’ve had —_ Donald muses, adjusting the dog collar — _but it comes close._ The cassock hangs too short on him and he can’t help but blush at the sight of his ankles in the mirror.

 _“Client requested to make sure the crucifix is out on show. Outfit is dry clean only.”_ signs off his agent. Donald sighs, checking the appointment details once more. “ _Aleister Crowley, 10:45pm_ , _room 452.”_ He hopes there won’t be any blood or animal entrails involved this evening. Prosthetic or otherwise.

The knock on the door is a couple of minutes late, and Donald opens it to find an unimpressed looking man not dressed at all as suggested on _OneNightInPaloAlto.com’s_ “How to arrive to your date" page.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man profanes flatly.

“Excuse me?”

“I was told I would be meeting my supplier here tonight, but it looks like I stumbled upon the kind of party you only read about after a child’s been reported missing.”

“Um, are you not Mr. Aleister Crowley?”

The man bristles irritably. ”LaVeyan, not Theleman. Why, are you going to try and melt me with holy water? Do mindless acts of violence against innocent non-believers get you one step closer to your merciless God?”

Donald’s deep confusion must be evident on his face, as the man’s brows furrow in what feels like mirroring. “I’m sorry sir, but I’ve been booked for an appointment for 10:45 and was supplied this outfit to wear on request. Was it not you who booked me?”

“Booked you for what?” The man tilts his head, peering into what he can see of the hotel suite. “Wait — are you some kind of Nazarene concubine? A tribute act to Rahab, the fun time gal of Jericho?”

“The term we prefer is professional companion.”

“Fuck you, Dinesh.” the man growls under his breath.

They stand there in silence, the fluorescent lights of the corridor cutting razor sharp shadows into the carpet. Donald feels the weight of the crucifix pulling down against the back of his neck, and the long, loose garment at once breathable and suffocating.

“Sir, whilst I understand that this may have been an erroneous booking by another client, it’s already 15 minutes past the specified start time and no one else has turned up. Whoever completed the booking has lost their appointment slot, according to our terms and conditions. And as I’m all dressed up and have nowhere to go,” his attempt at a joke is met with unveiled contempt. “I’m at your disposal for the rest of this session. Would you like to come in?”

“I don’t pay for it.” He looks Donald up and down and sighs. “But as both of us have had our time wasted, and it is not within my code of ethics to allow an agent of pleasure and sexual liberation to suffer at the hands of Osama bin Laden's helpdesk manager, you should be compensated. Plus, you’ve dressed up like a child molester for my supposed benefit, so I’ve got to give you credit for your dedication to the job.” the man pulls out his wallet. “All right, how much? Don’t worry, I will be getting this back plus more directly from source, without clearing it with the bank.”

“Oh, everything has been pre-paid, there is no outstanding balance. And I would only feel comfortable accepting a tip knowing I had left my client completely satisfied.” Donald smiles awkwardly.

“Pre-paid? Fucking Jian Yiang.” The man mutters, shoving his wallet back into his pocket as he turns to leave.

“No, wait —” Donald reaches out, grabbing the man by the sleeve of his flannel. “I would be most grateful if you could stay with me inside this room until the session time has come to an end.”

The man yanks his arm aggressively out of Donald’s grip. “Why?”

“Well, um,” Donald’s fingertips tap together as his shoulders pin in. He lowers his voice. “My agency monitors my appointments — all of our appointments. They like to refer to it as ‘quality assurance’. If a client turns or is turned away from the door, or leaves before the session is over, there is an investigation into what happened. Each investigation is marked against your employment history, and they are not lenient when it comes to customers they believe are dissatisfied.” He looks up pleadingly. “Please, sir, Palo Alto is expensive.”

“How can they tell? What are they, tracking you? Hidden cameras? Microchips?”

Donald leans in closer still, and is quietly surprised that the man does not recoil. He raises a hand to point, with hoped surreptitiousness, over the man’s shoulder to the door behind him. “There’s a woman in there with a list of our schedules and access to this floor’s security cameras. She knows exactly when and where clients are meant to meet us, and what time they are meant to enter and leave our rooms.”

The man looks around, noticing the motionless wink of a fisheye camera. He makes for his wallet again and stalks up to the cold, dead orb, pulling out a Sigil of Baphomet promotional sticker acquired at his most recent meeting. He peels off the backing and _thwacks_ it onto the lense. “Issue resolved.” He affirms.

“I admire your audacity, Mr. Crowley. But she can also see us through the keyhole.” Donald waves at the door, conscious that it’s 11:05pm now and they still haven’t actually entered his room together. “Please, sir — you’ll find the room most accommodating. It has a fully complimentary minibar and a 60” 4K television, as well as a California King that would be considered opulent by many. It would not trouble me at all to stay in the bathroom for the duration of this session, so you may use the time as you please.” Donald’s holds out his arms with palms up. “But if you could just stay until just past 1am this evening, I would be overwhelmed with gratitude.”

“Fine.” he concedes. “But take off that fucking trash bag.”

The man steps inside and beelines to the mini-fridge, and Donald is hit with a tidal wave of relief. He’s had an investigation only once before with this agency, and nearly missed a mortgage payment from how few jobs he was given that month. He pointedly does not think about the relative fairness of the gig economy.

He fishes out his khakis and button-down from the wardrobe, looking forward to shedding this ill-fitting garment, which is uncomfortable in a multitude of ways. He exits the en suite feeling like himself again and asks “So what should I call you by this evening, sir?”

“Call me whatever you like.” The man replies. “Aleister is fine.”

“Okay, Aleister. Would you prefer that I stay in the bathroom this evening?” Donald asks as Aleister settles onto the bed with remote in hand, shoes still on, much to Donald’s antipathy. The television blinks into life.

“Nah, don’t freeze your ass off in there. ‘Found with dead hooker in a hotel room’ isn’t high on the list of things I’m looking to accomplish.”

Donald hums with an appreciative politeness reserved for responding to impolite remarks. He lowers himself into the plush leather desk chair, swiveling it towards the television, folding his hands into his lap. They watch TV together in a surprisingly comfortable silence while Aleister flicks through the channels.

“So how long have you been doing this?” Aleister asks after a while, bringing his third bottle back to his lips, not looking at Donald.

_7 years._

“Oh, not long. Just graduated last year and am looking to break into the tech scene, much like everyone else in Palo Alto, I suppose.” Donald chirps benignly, focusing his gaze in between Aleister’s eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“Oh, um? What makes you say that?” Donald’s voice waivers.

Aleister turns his gaze squarely to Donald’s face. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you’ve been doing this for 6 months.”

Donald freezes, the proverbial rabbit in headlights, not daring to meet Aleister’s hole-boring glare. He sighs, capitulating, and finds a safe spot to focus on on the floor.

“How did you know?”

Aleister grins smugly, his beer bottle sloshing hollowly. “I didn’t. Lucky guess.”

The TV mutters in the background as the silence between them sits like bubbles waiting to be popped. Aleister pulls out the first pin.

“Do you enjoy fucking strangers for money?”

“It’s… lucrative.” He doesn’t lift his gaze back up. “It’s not exactly what I planned to do going into college, but I seem to have made a good living out of it. Or perhaps it’s made a living out of me.”

“Huh.”

The bubbles between them shrink. Aleister finishes bursting them.

“My ex-girlfriend recently confessed that she ended our totally open, hedonistic, long-distance relationship to pursue your line of work.” He takes another swig but finds the bottle empty — the IPAs are finished, so he starts on the whiskey miniatures. “Apparently breaking up with me would be less painful for me than watching her go full service.” He drinks straight from the bottle, gazing into the distance. “She never even asked.”

“Well, I will confess that it is a rather emotionally exhausting occupation. And a difficult client can be rather impactful on one’s well being.” Aleister looks at Donald and chuckles.

“Not you, of course.”

“Whatever. You still looking to go into tech? What as, a coder? A system architect?” 

“Eventually, yes, it’s an ambition that’s not quite extinguished. But it would be more on the business side, perhaps sales or biz dev.”

“You don’t need to be in Palo Alto to find work in that field.”

“Oh, but there is something just so _magical_ about this place, don’t you think? And the Pacific is such a beautiful ocean. 

“Kid, do not be deceived.” He gets up again off the bed and goes to the minibar. “This place is a shitshow, a circus with drugged-up tigers and broken tightropes. The Valley is a gaping void just waiting to swallow you up and strip your flesh from your bones, cell by cell, atom by atom, until you are so torn up that whether you ever even had a soul is a question you do not have the mind left to answer with.” He knocks back a Smirnoff. “Whatever bullshit some sad-sack, limp-dicked, psoriasis-faced horny old bastard can do to you on your back is not an iota on what a 20 year old upstart with one idea, too much funding and an ego that reaches to Mars can do in half the time. Plus —” He slams the door of the empty fridge shut. “ — say goodbye to getting your dick wet. You will never fucking get laid again.”

Donald bursts out laughing, a real belly laugh that makes his ribs ache. Aleister’s smirk becomes a grin, which dances into a chuckle, until they are both caught in the graceless act of letting go, all coughs and tears and cramping abdomens.

The jovality dies down slowly, oscillating between giggles and deliberate, heavy inhalations, leaving them both under the warm waters of buzzed up happiness. Donald catches a glimpse of the clock between his quiet coughs - 12:43am.

“Aleister, this has been a wonderful evening.” he beams. Aleister returns a smile from beneath his beard.

“Glad I could amuse.”

“You know, there’s still just over 15 minutes left before our time is up. If you are at all inclined, I could assist you with the, ah, minor difficulty you mentioned you’re having.” He licks his lips. Aleister glares at him over his glasses.

“I didn’t mention any difficulty.”

“Yes, I understand...”

“...”

“...”

“...I told you, I don’t pay for it.”

“Oh, but you haven’t paid for this evening. If you walked away now you’d lose nothing, and if you wanted to partake in my services you would owe me nothing. So in essence, you are being offered it for free.”

Aleister mulls how this evening was bought for him as a prank, and how he can’t remember the last time he came from anyone’s hand but his own. He recalls two of the Nine Satanic Statements from the Bible:

  1. _Satan represents indulgence instead of abstinence._


  1. _Satan represents vengeance, instead of turning the other cheek_.



He smirks.


	2. "Alex"

“ _Likes a man in a suit - NO hoodie.”_ The agent’s email specifies. Donald deliberates between two ties and wonders if the waistcoat will be considered excessive. Next time he’ll ask.

There is a knock on the door as scheduled and Donald rushes to finish the full Windsor knot. 

“Coming!”

In front of him stands a radiant young woman, tall and slim with hazel eyes and honey-brown hair that braid together into a gorgeous autumnal complexion. She looks tired.

 _No no no_ Donald’s stomach drops. Memories of the last time a young businesswoman stood alone in front of his door tidals into his mind. He’d tried desperately, deludedly, to convinced himself that everything would be alright, that he is wiser and more cautious and that going through an agency this time would protect him in a world that wants to punish him for delivering the services it so pitifully begs him to provide.

“Um, hi.” She shuffles uncomfortably from one foot to the other, readjusting the Tory Burch tote on her shoulder. “Alex. Am I at the… the right room?”

 _There’s been a tip off, this is a setup_ He panics. None of this is legal outside of rural Nevada, and now he’s paying the price of trying to make a living in a city no one can afford.

Donald hides his shaking free hand behind his back and tries to keep his voice level. “Hello. May I ask whom you’re looking for?”

Alex looks down at her phone, scrolls. “Um, Jared. Jared Jones.” She looks up, “Is that you?”.

 _Depends on who's asking,_ he doesn’t say, knowing that would be game’s up instantly. He plays along, having learned a long time ago that cooperation can be far less consequential than resistance.

“Yes, he is I.” He punctuates with an uncomfortable laugh. “How may I help you?”

The elevator chimes distantly down the corridor and Alex shifts her weight back to the other foot. “I’m here through the One Night in Palo Alto website.” She checks her phone again, frowning. “This is definitely the right date.”

 _At least I’m wearing clothes this time_ Donald thinks, recalling the only other time he’d gotten caught, which had been in a state-wide crackdown. He gotten off with a caution then, but he’s not a minor now. He sighs internally, resigned — this was going to happen one day, it may as well be now while he looks presentable and he’s young enough to rebuild his life, mostly. He puts on his biggest, most brilliant smile for his final performance. _Send in the clowns!_

“Ah, Alex! Please, do come in.” He opens the door and she follows. “I apologise for my reticence — I have to make sure people say who they are around here.”

She laughs breathily, exhaling a puff of stress. “Don’t I know it.” She slips off her Louboutins with immense relief — that standing-room-only joke of a presentation went on for fucking _hours_.

“May I offer you a drink? We have a selection of beverages both alcoholic and soft, as well as loose leaf teas and decaffeinated coffee.” Donald rambles.

“Oh god, a whiskey and coke. That would be great. A double, thanks.” She puts down her bag and slips off her jacket, looking around with uncertainty.

“Here, let me take those.” Donald grabs the bag and coat and hangs them up in the lockable wardrobe. Do officers drink on the job? He doesn’t think so. And shouldn’t she keep her badge with her, rather than allowing him to store it neatly away? He’s wondering how far she’s going to take this ruse before she shows her hand, but then it’s also unusual that an officer request a form of non-incriminating dress, or that they should sit on the bed shaking their hair out of a tight, professional bun. She’s not actually going to… to _handle his wares_ before arresting him, surely?

Alex flops down on the bed, leaning back on the heels of her palms and stretching her legs out infront of her. “The men in this town, Jared. _God_.” She looks up at him smiling, her head sinking into her shoulders. “They’re just such _assholes_.” she adds before flopping dramatically backwards, arms stretched out wide, her ankles clicking as she makes circles with her feet.

Donald laughs, for the first time that evening thinking that perhaps his assumption was wrong. A police officer might try to ensnare with seduction, but they would never _flop._ He hands Alex her drink, the ice cubes clinking against the crystal. She sits up and takes a sip.

“Did something happen today?” he enquires.

“Oh, nothing different. I was cut off in a meeting half way through speaking, then a guy repeated something I’d already said and got applauded for ‘coming up —’” she air-quotes “— with an idea that was actually mine.” She knocks back the rest of her drink, reaching out her glass for Donald to pour her another. “Nothing new.”

“Gosh, that sounds awful.”

“Mmm.” She watches the way the ice cubes float in the glass, the way they slowly dissolve in the environment they’re immersed in. “I sometimes think I should have been a nurse, or a school teacher. But then you have to deal with a different kind of bullshit.”

“That is true. The front line of the human condition can be both agonizing and overwhelming.”

Alex chuckles. “You sure are one fancy-mouthed hooker.” They both laugh, and the torturously taut skin of anxiety that has been stretching him on the rack this evening snaps, leaving him at once ripped apart and free. If he were alone he would be crying from the relief of knowing he’s dodged yet another of the many bullets fired at him through life; would be holding his head under a full bath of water for just slightly too long so that when he surfaces he can inhale the miraculous joy of still being alive. But he isn’t alone and the show is still in its first act, so he leans back against the cherrywood writing desk with his soda and lime and readjusts his courtesan mask.

“So, what brings you here?” he asks, rebooting himself. “I will confess, it’s quite unusual for me to see a young woman alone, least of all one as lovely as you.”

Alex smiles, weary, shy. “That’s sweet of you, Jared. It would be nice if I didn’t have to pay to hear that.” She studies her chipping pedicure. “There is not one good man in Palo Alto, Jared —” she holds up a finger. “— not _one_ . And… well, I could use a bit of company right now. It’s been awhile since I’ve been shown a good time. An _actual_ good time. So, yeah.”

Donald smiles appreciatively, sitting down in the leather desk chair he’s turned towards the bed. “Don’t I know it.”

Alex’s brow furrows as she cradles the cold glass in her hands. “Wait, you do see women, right? The website said you do. You’re not, like, _completely_ gay?” she takes another sip.

“Oh rest assured Alex, I define my sexuality as ‘fully accommodating’.” he smiles.

Alex smirks, and Donald is reminded of the woman he used to have study dates with in college. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with an air of self-consciousness, running her finger down the long strand and fiddling with the end. Her nail polish is lavender. He likes lavender.

“Well, that’s a relief. I was thinking, like, ‘even the good escorts!’” She exclaims, then bites her lip, shutting herself up. Her voice lowers. “I thought about not coming tonight. I’ve been having a hard time recently, both at work and, you know, with boys.” She looks up again, taking in Donald’s features, appreciating the way the tie he’s wearing sits against his narrow chest, the sharp edges of the lapels cutting hard lines into his angular body.

“There was this one company we were funding — I’m a VC — that looked like it was going to collapse. Their CEO was awkward and scrawny and couldn’t really look people in the eye, that typical quiet genius valley boy who’s all scruffy hoodies and low self-esteem. Normally not my type, but he just had this excitement about him, this raw energy and this incredible belief in what he was doing that’s so rare around here. He turned down a _huge_ amount of money from Hooli to pursue his dream, and I just found that so...attractive.” She puts the empty glass down on the bedside table. “When I thought it was going to be all over for them I asked him if he wanted to get a drink some time, but I think he kind of hates me. Or at least he’s really mad — I’m kind of the reason he turned down that money.” Her eyes downcast in a look of shame that Donald is very familiar with. “But I swear, I really did believe in him. And I’ve seen his dick and everything, but not in a sexual way. Just, you know, saw him through the bathroom window. Peeing.” She wipes her hands, damp from the glass’s condensation, on the bedspread. “Anyway, his company bounced back in like, this crazy way, so I guess it’s a good thing that nothing ever happened. It feels like a running theme in my life, you know? _Good thing nothing ever happened because it would have all blown up in your face._ ” She gazes at Donald, hungry. “You look nothing like him.”

Jared fits his smile to his suit. “I hope the outfit is to your satisfaction”.

“Yeah, good job.” She beckons him over and reaches up to stroke his chest. “Good job.”

Alex pats the space on the california king, shuffling over. Donald sits beside her, taking her cue to place a hand on her slim thigh. She rests her head in the crook of his neck and he can feel her smile against his skin as she snakes her hand up his arm.

“I just get so _exhausted_ , Jared. Tired of the macho bullshit, of having to pretend to care about snowboarding and cars just to be allowed to sit at the table. Of all these nerdy guys with their wild ideas who are so clueless and brilliant and awful — and horribly, _horribly_ dressed.” She takes a deep breath in, pulling him gently forward by the tie. “You smell so nice, Jared. You’re so clean and polite and well put together. I could tell from your photos that you would be different.”

Donald gently pushes back Alex’s hair as they move closer together. “May I kiss you, Alex?”

“Don’t talk.” Alex commands as she pulls Donald down onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _I define my sexuality as ‘fully accommodating’._ " Thank [crutialandinert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucialandinert/pseuds/crucialandinert) for this _immense_ bit of headcanon.


	3. Gavin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one isn't horrible, I promise!

It would be impossible not to recognise him immediately. Not just last week he was on the cover of The Wall Street Journal, the strapline “ _Nuclear Fallout: A Legacy in Ashes._ ” sitting under his brutal glare. His agent had unusually given this client’s name as “B”, instead of a customary first name pseudonym, and had stressed the need for particular discretion. _“Pretend you don’t know who he is. And that you haven’t been reading the news.”_ she had signed off.

In person he is shorter than Donald expects him to be, though his shoulders are square and broad. Donald expects to find himself intimidated, but in this client’s presence he feels something unanticipated — the quiet vulnerability that comes with total, annihilating exhaustion. He seems flat somehow, a deflated helium balloon that can’t quite keep itself afloat, and Donald imagines that on a normal day he is anything but.

“You don’t need to pretend you don’t know who I am. Or that you haven’t been reading the news.” is his opener. Donald would be taken aback, but can’t deny his basal relief. Practiced as he is in playing along with fantasies and fabricated identities, the meteoric impact of this man’s presence in the public sphere would have made this an acutely challenging performance. He smiles his sweetest, most comforting courtesan smile.

“How would you like me to address you, sir?”

“Not _sir_. I’m here to get away from all that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Donald’s fingertips lace together habitually, a subconscious comforter in pregnant pauses. “Mr. Belson is fine. No, actually-” he smiles in taut amusement, thinking ahead. “Let's go with Gavin.” He shrugs off his jacket, moving to hang it up on a padded hanger because Burberry is not to be _tossed._

“Gavin, okay. Gavin, may I get you something to drink? I have a bottle of Montelena Chardonnay 2012 in the refrigerator which I can put on ice.”

“Thank you, but I no longer drink. Interferes with the balance of my Tattvas.”

 “Then tea, perhaps? It’s whole-leaf; I have a wide selection, including Pu erh and Oolong.”

“Wow, you really are full service, aren’t you?” Gavin chuckles, toeing off his leather Tod’s. “Rooibos, if you have it. Yerba mate if not. Where’s the bathroom?”

Gavin slides closed the door of the en suite as Donald fills the kettle. His clients come from all over the world and request a baffling array of comforts, so he ensures that he has a range of beverages to hand. He had an actor the other day, a British gentleman with surprisingly straight teeth, ask him for a “Builders with blue milk and three.” That took some googling and a call to room service. The hiss of the shower comes from the bathroom, and Donald quietly appreciates how this will give the tea time to brew properly.

He sits on the bed, toying with his cufflinks. If _Gavin Belson_ is now a client, does that officially make him “high-class”? A professional amongst the professionals, a top player in the industry? His agent must think highly of him, he smiles to himself — she wouldn’t offer _Gavin Belson_ any old Tom, Harry or, indeed, Dick. She brings out the big guns for the big boys, and Donald allows himself to indulge in the little ego boost that thought brings.

 _Gosh,_ he thinks as he contemplates just how long he’s been doing this. Like the woman who introduced him to this line of work, he only expected to be doing this for a year, just long enough to cover the cost of his college applications. But during college, even with his scholarships and his RA work, getting to the point of choosing between books and food always came around startlingly early, so he fell back on this fast buck and carried on all the way up to just a week before his finals. Then as the harsh light of graduation and the prospect of a year’s unpaid interning dawned on his checking account, he suddenly realized what ‘privilege’ really meant, and how much of it was needed to keep afloat while grasping out for the first rung of the career ladder. So he’d slipped back into this sideline after moving to Palo Alto with ambitions to join the silicon goldrush, which had turned into every other evening, then into where he his now — 10 days on, 3 days off, and a few years away from owning a condo in one of the most expensive towns in America.

He contemplates his place in the whorearchy, hoping wherever he sits on that spectrum that he does indeed have a heart of gold.  

The bathroom door clicks open, and Gavin strides in wearing the plush towel robe, looking no more relaxed. He pauses, taking Donald in, pursing his lips in an intense, deliberate study. Donald shifts uncomfortably under the gaze — he’s used to being looked at and looked through, but not to having detailed, focused attention examining him.

“Is everything to your liking, Gavin? Your tea is ready, there’s milk in the fridge and honey by the kettle.”

Gavin exhales, measured, purposeful. A deep-sea memory surfaces: The Stamford Computer Systems Laboratory, 1982, the first time he laid eyes on the man for whom he would feel every combination of the Rubik's cube of human emotion. Granted, this boy looks like he can tether his eyes to a person’s face for more than half a second, so the resemblance isn’t exactly striking — but the gangly limbs, the dark brown mop, the deep discomfort in the slouch of his shoulders all provoke the smell of the benches and the solder and the Zeitgeist of that tipping point in human history.

“You remind me of someone I used to know well. Very well. It’s the height. And the hair. And the way your hands claw.”

Donald instinctively retracts his hand to his sides, never having been more aware of them.

“Though you’re thinner in the face. And you speak in full sentences.”

Gavin steps forward and, with an unexpected tenderness, lifts a knuckle to stroke Donald’s face. _Lights down, curtains up,_ Donald thinks before he leans in to the touch, holding his hand against Gavin’s until Gavin’s palm is flat against his cheek. Gavin cards his fingers through Donald’s hair, tugging his head gently backwards before bending down to kiss his throat.

Years of doing this, of clients whose names he’s paid handsomely to never repeat, has shown him first hand and up close the acne scars that underlie the glossy editorial shoots, the ticks and fidgets that PR teams spin out of public personas. So it doesn’t surprise him that Gavin Belson, a man whose cutthroat ferociousness makes weekly headlines, would brush the very tips of his fingers over Donald’s adam’s apple before pressing him gently back down onto the bed.

It’s the poles of intimacy that Donald has come to learn he finds most arousing — a gentle thumb caressing his brow and an open palm leaving marks on his cheek both ignite the same attention, pulling him away from the middling consciousness and into the moment. Gavin is not the type he normally goes for, but Donald takes what he can from his work, privately having written himself a Personal Development Plan. He opens his long arms to embrace Gavin, who buries his head in the crook of Donald’s neck, pulling them both onto their sides and curling in on himself, far smaller than Donald is sure anyone has seen him in a long time.

Donald slides a hand down the neck of the bathrobe and feels the infinitesimal tightening of the muscles under his fingers; he readies himself for whatever Gavin is in need of saying next. He feels Gavin’s wide hand grip his arm tighter, burying himself a little deeper into Donald’s chest, and Donald instinctively begins rubbing soothing circles on his back. He’s wondered before just how many men really buy an evening with him not for sex, but for this — the chance to be held with tenderness, to be listened to with patience, to be allowed to cry without judgement.

“I’m a fraud, Jared.” Gavin mumbles into the dip in Donald’s chest. “A charlatan who was in the right place at the right time, who got way more than he ever deserved.” Gavin’s grip is painfully tight, and Donald makes to play with Gavin’s hair to distract himself. “The world is no better because of me. I’m just a fucking loser with nothing to show for a life’s interminable work except a couple of fucking Teslas and a garage inside another fucking garage.”

“No, Gavin, no.” Donald soothes, brushing his lips over Gavin’s forehead. “You’ve changed the world. We used Hooli as a case study in my Economics of Inequality and Discrimination class at college.”

Gavin frowns up at him.

“Oh, because of how Hooli is trying to address labour market disparities, leveraging its position by setting exemplary hiring and HR policies.” Donald supplies quickly.

“You went to college?”

“This is how I part-paid for my tuition, yes.”

Gavin sighs and drops his head down again, wondering for a moment how many of his employees had to do the the same thing. Donald’s hand settles between his shoulder blades.

“Would you care for a massage, Gavin? I have both aromatherapy and unscented oils, as well as a hypoallergenic gel.”

“That sounds excellent.” Gavin replies, reaching down to undo the robe's belt.

In place of a real massage table Donald straddles Gavin’s hips, the smell of citrus and lavender perfuming the room. Gavin groans under the roll of Donald’s knuckles.

“Lets not think about work tonight, Gavin.” Donald purrs, the heels of his palms digging into the tight spots. “Let me take your mind off of things, help you relax, unwind.”

Gavin hums agreeingly, and Donald hopes that Gavin will tip handsomely.


	4. "Richard"

_Oh, he’s handsome,_ Donald thinks. His acute intuition prickles at his conscious, which swings the hammer against his internal alarm bell and sirens _CAREFUL, KIDDO! IT’S A TRAP! DON’T LET ALL_ **_THAT_ ** _FUNNY BUSINESS HAPPEN AGAIN!_

This type of client comes because they can’t quite look after themselves, and would never admit to the fact that they don’t think they should have to. The entitled and overindulged never made to turn on the vacuum, pick up their socks and accept the fact that sex and love are hard, compromising labour. The ones that claim uselessness, feign haplessness, allow themselves to become so incapacitated by the endless deluge of domestic minutiae that Donald must swoop in and save them, carve out a space for himself by the hearth, stay barefoot and pregnant and cater to their every need — and they are so very, _very_ needy.

 _Put that heart back in it’s box, Donald,_ his conscious chides as he feels his ticker trying to burst out of his chest. The man’s flaking cuticles, his bleeding over-chewed lip, the holes in the cuff of his hoodie all suck Donald in like a black hole, screaming _LOOK AFTER ME_ in a timbre Donald can’t ignore, like a mother hearing her baby cry.

_You can’t care for two! Broken baby birds will never fly! Get out while the building is Not On Fire!_

His conscious glares down at him disapprovingly, and Donald dismisses it. He will allow himself to indulge a little with this one tonight, safe behind the guise of transactional professionalism.

“Richard?” he asks softly. The client hasn’t yet looked up, his downcast gaze fixed somewhere between his embarrassment and their toes.

“Um, yeah. Hi.” his eyes flicker up briefly then return like they didn’t see anything. “I, um, didn’t bring you a gift. Or anything. At all.”

“That’s okay, Richard, I don’t need additional gifts.”

Richard’s head cranes up like a Pez dispenser as he fumbles about putting words into the right order.

“I know you’re, like, supposed to, but I didn’t really know what sort of thing you’re meant to bring to this, um…” his hands gesticulate wildly. “ Arrangement. Like, I know there’s a list on the site, but you probably get stuff from it all the time, so, um, maybe you didn’t want more of the same? And I really didn’t have time to shop for something special, and I don’t know what you think is special anyway, so...yeah?”

Donald chuckles gently. “That’s quite alright. The list on the website is only a suggestion, you’re under no obligation.” The client shuffles awkwardly. Donald feels unusually compelled to take the lead, to grab Richard’s hand and guide him down the rabbithole.

“Would you like to come in?” he asks, and Richard looks around suspiciously, up and down the empty corridor before shuffling inside the room.

A warm shroud of excitement mixed with nerves hovers like a fog, and Donald is glad that this is the last client he’ll have before he breaks for his three day weekend.

“So, how are you?” Richard asks, his best ice breaker.

“Oh, I’m quite alright.” Donald replies, smoothing out an invisible crease in his sleeve. “Yourself?”

“Yeah, fine, ok.” and then “Actually, no. No, I’m not. I had a really shitty thing happen today.” He sighs, huffs, and sighs again, pacing around in figure eights, makes to sit and apparently thinks better of it. His whole face scrunches up tightly, and Donald can’t tell if he’s trying to remember or forget.

“There was this article today in Code/Rag, _God_ — _“Richard Hendricks and Gavin Belson rivals once more! Can David beat Goliath?” —_ and I just — I never set up a company so I could get embroiled in bullshit public fistfights with billionaires who have stupid hair.”

 _He’s using his real name?_ Donald realises, taken aback with clandestine excitement. _We have a secret._

“Oh dear, that doesn’t sound pleasant at all.”

Richard fixes him with exasperated, buggy eyes. “No, Jared. Not pleasant. Very unpleasant. Vee minus minus, Big Brother is watching and is trying to shove a cactus up my ass.” he flops bodily frontwards onto the mattress, burying his face into his arms.

Donald wonders what the best way to help Richard relax would be, if he’s the type of person who can be helped to relax at all. He waits for Richard to finish his tirade, for the air to clear, the waters to calm.

“Can I offer you a beverage? I have a wide range of alcoholic and soft drinks, including tea, cof-”

“Do you, uh, have a brother around here?”

Richard’s peering up at him from the crook of his elbow, slowly raising his head up until he is looking at Donald, _really_ looking at him. The teaspoon almost slips out of Donald’s fingers.

Donald blinks. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

“What, if your brother lives around here?”

“Oh, if I have any siblings at all.”

The question sitting in Richard’s furrowed brow goes unasked.

“It’s just that you look kinda like this guy I work with. Actually, kinda a lot like him.” he shuffles bodily to sit up. “You have the same eyes. And, like, the same name — though I’m guessing Jared isn’t your real name... just like ‘Richard’ isn’t mine! Ha!”

“Ha, that would indeed be silly, Richard.”

“Yeah, well, anyway—” Richard worries his lip with his teeth, his gaze averted. “I shared a room with him for a while — not in a gay way, just because, like, the laws of the State of California make it difficult to evict squatting tenants, and anyway…” he gives a little shrug. “I’m starting to think he has a thing for me”. Richard’s toes bounce off the floor.

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“Just...the way he’s always around me making sure I’m ok, even when I’m not. And how he tries to get me to go to sleep and cut out the Red Bull, like he’s my mom, but when I say “You’re not my mom” he looks a bit hurt. And he says weird stuff that’s creepy-sweet, like ‘You’re my captain and I’ll sleep with rats and I’ll eat hardtack and if we’re sinking I’ll strap you into the last lifejacket’. Then he, like, _salutes_?”

Donald has to resist the urge to stop Richard’s picking the skin of his own thumb.

“Well, he certainly sounds dedicated. Has he said anything directly about how he feels?”

“Yeah. No. I mean, he hasn’t, like, made a big declaration or anything. Just… it’s the little things.” Richard’s moved on to his fingernails, his whole body sighing. Quietly, he continues “I really hurt him. Like, _really_ hurt him. I didn’t mean to — I just thought he would never leave me. I guess he was lying. Or has limits. Maybe both.” His gaze flickers like a television between Donald and the floor, the corner of his mouth pulled up in awkward internal amusement. “Hey, Jared Dunn, is that actually you? You trying to tell me something in like, a really long winded way?”

“I’m afraid not Richard, this is the first time I’ve met you.” Donald replies, with a strange, inscrutable regret. “But tonight I can be anyone you want me to be.”

“Oh.”

Donald doesn’t need to ask how Richard feels about Jared Dunn, though Richard clearly needs to ask it to himself. The faint giggles of an amorous couple can be heard moving up the corridor, abruptly ending at the sound of a door clicking shut.

“I’ve never done this before.” Richard murmurs, eyes fixed on a scuff on his New Balance casuals. Donald sits down next to him, just distant enough, just close enough, resting his hand in the space between them.

“That’s quite all right. I’m very experienced at guiding clients through their first time with a professional companion.”

“No, I mean—” he holds out a hand as if that will explain everything. “I’ve never done _this._ ”

“Oh. You mean with a man?”

“Like, um, at all.”

“Oh.”

“I know, right?” comes a strangled reply. “Pathetic. Totally pathetic. I’m _30_ next year. And I just thought that if I don’t do it _right now—_ ” he folds in half, faceplanting into his own hands.

“Richard, it’s all right.” Donald runs a hand up and down Richard’s back, the vertebrae under the soft fleece reminiscent of an old park bench. “You are far from alone. Many more people wait to have their first experience later in life than society leads us to believe.”

“I haven’t been waiting, this isn’t a _choice._ ” Richard spits, shucking away from Donald’s sympathies. “I just— this hangs around my neck like a god-damn millstone. As if I’m not a big enough of a failure without _this_ as well. Everyone can tell, I can tell that they can tell.” He slides foetal onto his side with his back to Donald, his hoodie strings catching themselves under his shoulder. “I just...God, my first time is going to be with a prostitute. Someone I have to _pay_.” He peers back. “No offence.”

“None taken.”

He rolls over with a heave and a shuffle, curling into Donald, who is reminded of a stray cat he saved from a construction site when he was 12.

“There was a woman a couple of weeks ago — my, um, client’s fiancee — and she _jumped_ on me and I felt, I dunno’, different. Better. Like a better version of me, one that isn’t totally hideous. I really thought that was gonna be it, that I was finally going to lose it, but I didn’t actually… I couldn’t actually, you know, _get it in_. I kinda, well — I kinda couldn’t stop myself from finishing before we started.”

The extractor fan in the en suite is _loud_.

“Oh God. I can’t believe I told you that.”

Donald slides onto his own side, lining his face up with Richard’s and placing a hand gently onto Richard’s arm.

“Richard, you’re not diseased; you don’t carry a repellent miasma. Virginity isn’t a felony, nor is it a precious gift. All that happens is that one moment you are and the next minute,” he snaps his fingers. “you’re not. But nothing fundamentally changes. You’re still going to be you.”

Donald thinks about the first time he had sex, then about the first time he chose to have sex, and decides against telling either story.

“Oh, great, I’ll still be _me_ .” Richard’s sigh is visceral, embittered with years of worry. “Look, Jared — I know doing this isn’t going to magically solve everything, but maybe it will do something. Break a cycle, crack through some ice, I dunno’. Let me know that at least _one_ human being can be convinced to touch me. Even if it’s for money.”

Richard’s despondent, giant eyes, that desperate need for a cuddle, is the thing Donald has to cage his heart away from, to steel his soul against and remind himself that love is a construct. If he doesn’t, he might never let Richard leave this room.

He slides his hands up Richard’s cheeks and holds him there, contemplates each eyelash, every pock mark, all the tiny twitches that orchestrate together to form each of Richard’s beautiful, anxious expressions. It’s nights like this that make this job worth doing, and he hopes that Richard will fall asleep and stay overnight after so he can pretend this isn’t just a transaction. “I’m going to give you everything you need tonight Richard. Everything you’ve ever thought about, anything you’ve ever wanted to try, no matter how silly you might think it is. I’ve heard everything before, you can’t surprise or embarrass me. I’m all yours tonight.”

For the first time that night Richard laughs and it sounds like a watch unwinding, a spring unloading. “ _Fuck_ , Jared, I haven’t gotten any sleep in, like, months. I might just pass out here. Then I wouldn’t even lose my virginity with an escort. _Jesus._ ”

“Oh, don’t worry Richard, I’ll be sure to keep you awake.” Donald grins, and pulls Richard forward into a deep kiss.

In the midst of the teeth and excitement, Donald breaks them off, interrupts.

“And Richard? I shouldn’t be telling you this, but,” he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I would still want to be here even if you weren’t paying me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great article on virginity at 20, 30 and 40+ can be found [on the Dr. Nerdlove website](http://www.doctornerdlove.com/20-30-40-year-virgin/).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)
> 
> Comments are love~ <3


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